


Nautilus

by romanticalgirl



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:45:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A whale of a tale</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nautilus

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/), as always. ::hearts:: Also thanks to [](http://kahtyasofia.livejournal.com/profile)[**kahtyasofia**](http://kahtyasofia.livejournal.com/) for the diving/submersible information. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Written for [](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/profile)[**alethialia**](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/) as a [](http://yuletide.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://yuletide.livejournal.com/)**yuletide** NYR story. Please keep in mind I really know nothing about deep sea diving, air craft carriers or that kind of thing. Roll with it.
> 
> Originally posted 6-15-09

Nate’s managed to secure a quiet corner of one of the upper decks to himself, knowing that if he’s on the main deck, he’ll just be in the way. That doesn’t stop the itch from flaring, the desire to be in the thick of things. He knows better – being in the thick of it is what’s gotten them all here on this carrier going home – and there’s nothing that the rest of the guys can’t handle. Let Craig call in another danger-close, fucked-up strike. At least the chances of death on the high seas will be limited to sea life and possibly the lost city of Atlantis.

He’s startled out of his thoughts by the page of his name, and he grabs his jacket and hightails it down to the deck, coming to a sliding halt on the salt slick metal. There are far too many people there for what should just be minor training missions and routine recon – Bryan and Craig and Major Eckloff standing in a huddle and several of Alpha company standing around. He doesn’t ask the question that’s almost painful on his tongue, just watches them try not to look at each other as they talk. Finally it’s too much. “You had me paged, sir?”

“We need Colbert.”

Nate almost laughs at the blunt statement, because needing Colbert is something that Nate tries very hard not to think about. Something he’s been failing at immeasurably for the past almost four months they’ve spent together. “Is something wrong?”

“There’s some information on the sonar. We need someone with his experience to go down.”

One of these days, the homoerotic layers of the Marine Corps are going to kill Nate. “The carrier’s at full speed, sir.”

Eckloff looks irritated for a moment, but recovers. “We’ll drop to half speed. Colbert can assemble a team and take out one of the submersibles. We need some recon, and he’s the best diver we’ve got.”

“Yes, sir.” Nate nods and turns on his heel, his heart loud in his chest. If the higher-ups are this paranoid, there’s most likely something actually down there, and Nate’s not sure he wants anyone, least of all Brad, diving into that. Of course, Brad would kick Nate’s ass just for thinking that if he knew, so Nate just jogs quickly to the NCO area of the carrier and knocks on the hatch before opening it. “Colbert.”

Brad’s stretched out on his bunk, magazine hiding his hand and what he’s obviously doing. The other guys are all playing cards or shooting the shit or playing the same one-handed game Brad’s got going on, but no one else catches Nate’s eye like Brad does. Even with the lower half of his body concealed by the largest pair of tits Nate has ever seen, Nate can see enough of Brad to know there’s no way he’s going to be able to sleep, much less walk, until he gets a chance to be alone with his own hand.

Brad’s head falls back, his hand still moving. “Yeah, LT?”

“You’re needed on deck in three.”

“Yes, sir.” Brad tosses the magazine to Walt, smacking him upside the head with it, and wraps his now-free hand around the base of his cock and finishes himself off, hand moving fast and tight and all Nate can hear, despite the machinery of the carrier and the sounds of the crew, is the whisper of Brad’s hand on his skin.

Brad comes, thick and creamy white, catching most of it in his hand and wiping it off on a towel he has nearby. He’s meticulous about cleaning between his fingers, and Nate has to shift to keep from thinking about sucking them clean instead, his tongue and lips instead of the once-white terrycloth. Brad angles off his bunk and does up his pants, tucking his shirt in before giving Nate a glance. "Lead the way, sir."

Nate heads up the metal stairs, feeling Brad’s looming presence at his back. His own dick is hard as hell, and he tries to think of things that he knows will kill it faster than a hand job, most of which he’s just lived through for 40 days in the desert. It does enough to let him keep his stride next to Brad, though the lanky looseness of Brad’s limbs makes him want to rage in irritation. Or pin Brad to the wall somewhere. He’d settle for that too.

“What’s this all about, sir?”

“They want you to take an submersible out.”

“Yeah?” Brad lights up and Nate wants to scream. He can only imagine that, on some level, this is how his parents and sisters feel about him being in the middle of everything, every day. The warrior spirit is the reason to be there, but the survival instinct, the R-brain keeps telling him to get the fuck out of danger. Fortunately hanging around grunts and POGs and commanding officers who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground has trained Nate to ignore the stuff he doesn’t want to listen to.

“There’s something down there they want checked out. They want you to assemble a team and go out. Who do you want?”

“Poke and Ray. Kocher or Lovell if I can get them.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to play platoon politics. Shouldn’t be a problem.” Nate feels underdressed, though he’s wearing the same thing Brad is – a USMC t-shirt with his name stenciled on the front and fatigues. Still, he feels like he should have some show of authority. “You sure you want Ray? Rudy’s good with the equipment.”

“Yeah, well, what Rudy does with his equipment doesn’t belong in an submersible.” Brad smirks and shakes his head. “I want Ray. Rudy can man the hook here at base. Are they going to slow the carrier?”

“They say they are.”

“Navy guys won’t run off on us, sir. They wouldn’t know how to defend themselves on the rest of the trip home.”

“Be nice or they’ll just dump you in the ocean without the boat.”

Brad grins wolfishly. “Let ‘em.”

Nate shakes his head but doesn’t reply as they move up to the gathered group on deck. Godfather has joined them and as soon as Nate and Brad arrive, he hustles them all to a room below deck with a table he spreads the maps out on. They’re ocean topography and sonar scans, the kind of quality Nate would have liked in fucking Iraq, but it’s not worth saying anything at this point. Patterson takes point on the briefing, and Brad works well with him, asking cognizant questions and clarifying exactly what they’re looking for.

“Submarines. We got pings on sonar that we can’t identify. As far as we know, Saddam didn’t have any naval capability in the Persian Gulf or Indian Ocean, but something’s down there and we need to know what it is and who it belongs to. Quickly.”

“No offensive strikes or movements?”

“Not that we can tell, but it’s deep enough that all sonar gives us is a ping that for all the fuck we know could be a giant fucking squid.”

“And if it is, sir? Should I light it up?”

Patterson smiles and defers to Godfather. “Sir?”

Godfather doesn’t smile, just looks solemnly at Brad. “Yes, Sergeant. Light that motherfucker up like it’s a fucking eight-legged Christmas tree.”

“I’m Jewish, sir. Can I opt for a Menorah?”

Nate closes his eyes, wondering exactly how this has become his life. His subordinate is mouthing off to his superior after too many days of tension and bitter feelings and Nate can’t say a fucking word. Fortunately, Godfather actually smiles. “Eight legs, eight candles, Sergeant. Do what you have to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brad nods at Nate and heads down to the ready room to suit up. Nate can practically feel the excitement sparking off Brad’s skin. Not only does he have a recon job, he’s got one in the water, where he belongs. Nate gets permission to use Kocher and then heads back to the NCO area, surrounded by men before he’s even halfway there. Marines have a better grapevine than wineries in Champagne, France. “Kocher, Person, Espera. Brad needs you in the ready room. You’ll get your orders there. Reyes, I need you to come with me to the command booth. I want a voice Ray and Brad know on the hook.”

There’s a chorus of groans that nearly drown out the echoes of ‘aye aye, sir’ that ricochet off the pathways as the three assigned take off. No one’s going to piss and moan about Brad’s qualifications of the job, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t all itching to get in the water, to get something that _is_ what First Recon does under their belt. Nate nods to the mass of them and then leads Rudy back to the command room before heading down to the ready room for the launch.

The submersible is monstrous looking in the small room, all four of the men talking to each other, checking equipment and sounding off. They’re like a well-oiled machine, and Nate’s never actually seen a recon mission where they were in their element before. It’s amazing to watch the way they fall together like a puzzle, each fitting into the role he’s most needed in by instinct and muscle memory. Nate’s good – he knows he’s good – but he’s not instinctual the way the men are. He’s command, and it shows. He consoles himself with the fact that his men don’t seem to hold it against him.

“Come to hold our hands, sir?”

Nate glances over and sees Brad in his wetsuit. Even when the surface water feels like a warm bath, the deeper water is still cold, and it’s coming on night. The gear makes Brad bulkier, but the suit makes him seem like he could easily be invisible. It makes Nate’s stomach churn to look at him, the fear of the water he thought he’d conquered threatening to well up and choke him. “I didn’t think you were the type, Sergeant.”

“Only if there’s dinner and a movie included, sir.” Brad flashes him a devastating smile, as if he knows all of Nate’s secrets. Poke slaps the side of the submersible and Brad glances over and nods once. Silence is about to become their language, narrowed down to signs they’ve ingrained into their minds through study and work and dedication and under fire. Recon Marines are the best of the best, and Nate knows he has the best of _them_. “Don’t let the Captain near the radio, huh?”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t worry, sir. We’re actually good at _this_ part of our job.”

“I can’t imagine there’s anything you and your men aren’t good at, Sergeant.”

“You may have a point there.” Brad heads over to the boat, barefoot and like some sort of shadow, long and lean with heavy shoulders and his helmet dangling from his hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. Ray’ll only wreck things at least twice as expensive as this.”

Nate nods and salutes him, watching them push off, propelling into the water below. There’s a nearly silent splash that seems loud in Nate’s ears and then he can hear the ship’s engines begin the grinding that shows they’re slowing to half speed. Even with that, their momentum and the tide will keep carrying them away from Brad’s crew, and nothing about this feels good or right to Nate. He curses under his breath, calling himself a few choice names as he makes his way to the command post.

Rudy’s on the comm., talking to Ray, and they have it filtered through the speakers so they can all hear what’s going on. Readings and reports come through and Nate pays vague attention, surprised at how much he’s missed Ray’s banter through the lines. An occasional ‘shut the fuck up, Ray’ comes through as well, the tone varying depending on who’s actually saying it, but nothing seems to stop Ray at all. Nate’s beginning to suspect he found a secret stash of Ripped Fuel somewhere.

When they hit their coordinates, the radio goes silent and Nate closes his eyes. Rudy’s breathing is calm and centered, like he’s doing fucking yoga on the comms, and as much as it irritates Nate, he tries to copy it. Rudy and Pappy managed an ambush with Pappy bleeding and Rudy navigating through the view the bullet that could have splattered his skull like a pumpkin had left in his windshield. Nate can breathe through this.

“Hitman Actual, this is Hitman Two-One.”

“Go ahead Two-One.”

“Coordinates show no sign of activity on our sonar scope. Two Actual is prepared for mission. Is mission go or no-go?”

Rudy doesn’t even glance backwards. Nate supposes he shouldn’t either, but he does look around at the very serious faces of the command group. “Mission is a go, Two-One. Proceed as directed.”

“Roger that. Two-One going radio silent.”

Nate’s never been in a submarine other than a tour in Annapolis once, and that was open to the public and didn’t really convey the tight, close quarters and the claustrophobic sense of a sealed hatch. Even the carrier has open spaces and the passageways are wide enough in spaces that two people can walk abreast. This room feels like he imagines a sub must be like, every noise amplified, every breath expanding and contracting in everyone’s chest all at once.

Closing his eyes, Nate leans against the bulkhead and remembers his water training. Panic and dreams that never quite resolved, flooding back whenever he’s in the water. He’d heard Brad tell the reporter that he was always scared to death the first time he opened his eyes, but Nate’s not sure, after seeing Brad’s Humvee lit up with no exit route, if he believes that Brad knows how to be scared.

Hours seem to pass before the radio crackles back to life, even though Nate knows that logically that can’t be the case. He rubs his eyes, feeling more tired than he did after 40 days in theater, and inhales, holding his breath as Ray’s voice comes over the line. “Hitman-Two, this is Hitman Two-One.”

“Go ahead, Two-One.”

“Echo Five Charlie remains in position.”

Nate’s stomach lurches and he can hear the underlying tautness of Ray’s voice. Brad’s still underwater.

“Repeat, Two-One.”

“Echo Five Charlie remains in position. How copy?”

“Clear copy, Two-One.”

Silence fills the room and Patterson won’t meet Nate’s eyes. Nate can feel something hot and wild clawing at his throat, and he clears it, hoping to get the feeling under control rather than let it loose. “Maybe the giant squid won. We didn’t send him out in an submersible named ‘Nautilus’ did we?”

“Hitman-Two, this is Two-One.”

“Go ahead, Two-One.”

“Echo Five Charlie asks that Hitman-Two Actual be advised that he’s not dancing a hornpipe or singing ‘A Whale of a Tale’.”

Nate nearly chokes on his laugh. “Two-One, this is Two Actual. Clear copy.”

“We’re oscar mike,” Ray reports, his voice muffled by the engines of the submersible. “Estimated RTB 167 mics unless Colbert gets out behind us and pushes.”

“Roger that, Two-One. Hitman-Two out.” Rudy keys the comm speaker off, though it’s still got a live connection, it’s just not filtering into the room. He’s settling into the chair, headset on and eyes closed as he listens to the chatter. Nate picks up a spare headset and listens with half an ear, not at all surprised to hear Brad and Ray, and possibly the other two, actually singing the song. He smiles and glances over at Godfather. He has a frown on his face that looks dangerous, but lines of communication are iffy enough that there isn’t a choice but to wait for face-to-face contact with Brad’s team. Nate settles the headset on both ears and copies Rudy’s pose, humming along with the distant singing.

**

“Incoming! We have incoming!”

The roar of the wind is nothing compared to the roar of the jets taking off. The hookers and enlisted run across the deck, all of them in perfect motion, doing their jobs as instinctively as Nate’s men. The Marines stay back, not trained for the shipboard fight and Nate eventually confines them to quarters just to make sure they stay out of the way.

Even worse is that they know that Brad’s team isn’t back yet, and somewhere out in the black ink of the ocean are four of their own. He puts Lovell in charge of the inmates and hurries back to the command post for their personal mission, dodging sailors left and right, slamming himself against bulkheads more often than his sore shoulders want to admit.

He makes it back and the command staff is nowhere to be found. Rudy’s still manning the radio, giving the team updates as he gets them from the ship’s crew. “What have we got?”

“They’re seeing the tracer fire and the planes are retaliating. They’re doing 12 knots and coming from a depth of 500 feet.” Rudy gives Nate a look that fails to be reassuring. “I’ve got every plane out there aware of them.”

“The ones on our side at least.”

“Yeah.” Rudy rubs his hand over his mouth as Nate settles into his headset. Kocher’s got a running commentary going on to Rudy and Nate can hear Ray cussing in the background, a seemingly endless litany of ‘fuck’s, ‘goddamn’s and a few others Nate’s not even sure he knows the meaning of. Brad’s voice is calm when it does come through, and Nate can almost picture them in the submersible, Brad and Poke conferring and following the sonar and scopes.

“Mother-fucking-god-damn-son-of-a-bitch-cock-sucking-sweaty-balled-whiskey-tango-sister-raping-Haji-loving-Commie _bastard_.” Ray’s voice goes up two octaves and the radio goes silent. Nate bites his lower lip hard, his hand gripping the table.

“Where are they, Rudy?”

“They killed the radio, sir.”

“That is not an acceptable answer, Sergeant. Where the _fuck_ are they?”

Rudy scrolls through channels, his fingers as calm and sure as his voice. “Hitman-Two-One, this is Hitman Actual, do you copy?” He repeats himself at every channel, switching between the frequencies that they trained for at Mathilda. He shakes his head when he gets no response from each one, cycling back around to the original frequency. “Shit.”

“Shit.” Nate slams his hand down onto the table. “That had better been something fucking important down there and it better be worth it. I did not fucking survive fucking Operation Iraqi Freedom to lose four fucking men to some goddamned sunken treasure.”

The radio crackles and Nate inhales, not releasing it until he hears Ray’s voice. “Hitman-Two, this is Hitman-Two-One. Do you copy?” There’s an edge of hysteria to the words as he repeats them again. Nate watches Rudy hit the right frequency; Ray’s pitch rising again in the short time it takes Rudy to respond.

“Two-One this is Hitman-Two. Clear copy.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Fruity, where the _fuck_ did you go?”

“Two-One, there was a break in transmission. We lost you for four mics. Please repeat pertinent location and mission status.”

“We are proceeding at our same speed of 12 knots, depth 482 feet. How copy?”

“Clear copy.” Rudy gives Nate a look and then glances back to the radio as another round of volleying shots seem to shake the ship. “Send lat and long for confirmation with aerial radar.”

“They’re nearly an hour out, Rudy.” Nate squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples. “And that’s with us at half-speed, and you know they’re going to ramp up to full-speed soon.”

“They have intelligence, sir. They’re not going to leave them out there.”

“After what we just went through? I wish I could believe that.” Nate sighs. “Just bring them home.”

Rudy nods, his talk steady as Nate tries to stay silent beside him. It’s harder than he ever imagined it would be, sitting back and waiting. It’s not that he doesn’t trust his men. He trusts them – all of them – implicitly. He just doesn’t trust command not to fuck them over. Not anymore.

Nate eventually tears off the headset and heads up to the ship’s command deck, hanging back as Godfather and the Admiral go toe to toe about the situation. Nate doesn’t have the strength to find out which one is vetoing waiting for Nate’s men to come back before they punch up to full speed, he just knows there’s an argument about it, and he can’t stand for that.

“No.”

Everyone turns to look at him, and he straightens, looking straight at both of them. “I respect both of you highly, but I will not let you leave my men out there. If you go to full speed ahead, there’s no way they’ll catch up. They’ll run out of fuel and they’ll be stuck in the middle of the ocean. You asked them to go out there to gather your intelligence, and I will not let you leave them out there. They’re less than an hour out at this speed. The attacks have slowed and whoever it is that’s using us for target practice is more interested in playing with his new missiles than actually hitting anything.”

“This isn’t your concern, Lieutenant,” Godfather rasps out.

“The fuck it isn’t, sir. Those are my men out there, and my job is to bring them home and, if I can’t, I’d better be fucking able to face their families and tell them they died for a _reason_ and right now I can’t do that. If you’re so hell-bent on leaving that submersible out there, you send a fucking helicopter out there to get my men.”

The Admiral’s jaw tightens. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir.” Nate doesn’t look away, though he does clench his fists to keep from losing control complete, from letting his rage get the best of him. “And, as I said, I respect you both, and I realize you have a ship and her crew to look after, but those men are _mine_ just like these men are yours. Would you leave your men out there, sir? Leave them running up on your ass as fast as they can under tracer fire, trying to get here? Not caring that your wake is washing over them when you pull the fuck away.”

Godfather doesn’t move a muscle. “Lieutenant Fick, you’re dismissed.”

Nate starts to say something else when Bryan grabs him, fingers wrapped tight around Nate’s upper arm and guiding him out of the room. Nate doesn’t jerk away, but it takes almost everything he has left in him not to turn around and walk right back in the room. Bryan blocking the door helps his resolve, but not by much. “Walk it off, Nate.”

“Those are _my men_.”

“I know, but you’re not going to help them in there accusing the top brass on the ship of not giving a shit about their men, no matter how true that might be or seem. Walk away.”

“What would you do, Bryan?” He knows he should, by all rights, address Bryan by his rank, but admitting that he wants his approval as his superior seems like too much just by virtue of the fact that Bryan might admit that Nate’s wrong.

“Take a walk, Nate.” Bryan pushes him toward the metal stairway leading into the bowels of the ship. “Go check on your men.”

“Yeah.” Nate feels like the weight of the entire ship is on his shoulders, steel bending bone.

“Nate?” Bryan sighs and nods toward the door back to the command deck. “We’re one battalion. They’re like my men too. I’ll be your voice in there if I need to.”

He nods, torn somewhere between believing him and reality. “Thanks, Bryan.”

“Just get Colbert’s ass back here.”

“Yes, sir.” Nate hurries down the stairs, skipping several steps and only catching himself by grabbing the thin bar railing. The grated treads dig at the soles of his boots, catching him and threatening to send him headfirst if he’s not careful. The ship rocks as another missile hits the water nearby and Nate’s stomach churns hard as commands that sound too much like they’re about to pull away echo through the ship.

Rudy’s still on the comms when Nate gets back, and he waves Nate over quickly. Nate slaps on the headset and closes his eyes, listening to the background bullshit as Rudy and Ray go over vectors and possibly ways to catch the ship.

“Hitman Two Actual, this is Hitman Two-One Actual. How copy?”

Nate sucks in a breath and thumbs the button on his comm. “Clear copy, Hitman Two-One Actual.”

“Tell me the truth, sir.”

“The brass are fighting. The missiles have dropped off, but they’re not keen to stick around and keep giving them a target.”

“That must be the Navy talking. I’m beginning to think that’s SOP for the Marines. What are the chances that the brass are going to come down on our side of the line, sir?”

“I’m not leaving you behind, Sergeant.”

“You’re a regular Captain Kirk, sir.”

“Well, you’re not Spock, so don’t even think of some sort of sacrifice. You’re my Marines and you’re coming back to this ship if I have to pull a fucking JFK stunt and get out and drag you through the water with a rope in my teeth.”

Brad steadfastly ignores him. “You’re a sci-fi geek, sir. I never would have guessed.”

“It’s iconic. I’m not any kind of geek.” Nate closes his eyes, holding the headset earpiece with his hand. “Isn’t there any kind of alternate route that would get you here sooner?”

“Well, despite popular belief, sir, I cannot bend the rules of physics or the space-time continuum. I’m not Scotty or Bones.”

“Why are we talking about Star Trek, Brad?”

“Just seemed like a good idea at the time.” Brad’s voice has a smile in it and Nate can’t help but smile in return. “Would it help to tell them there was fuck-all out there, do you think?”

“Is that what there was out there?”

“Sonar was pinging off fucking debris of some kind. Sunken ship or missile fodder. Nothing of interest or concern.”

“Well, no. Don’t tell them that.”

“Buried treasure? Spanish doubloons? Gems the size of the tits in the latest issue of Juggs? Alien spaceship?”

“How far out are you, Brad?”

“We’re not gaining fast enough, sir. About a click for your every five. If you go to full speed, maybe you’ll find us during the _next_ Gulf War. What is it? One every thirteen years or so? We may have eaten Ray by then just to shut him up.”

Nate laughs roughly. “He seems like he’d be a little gamey.”

“True. I suppose Poke’s got the most meat on his bones. And if we leave Ray alive, we might not care so much when it’s our turn to be cannibalized.”

“I appreciate you finding the silver lining, Sergeant.”

“We’re Marines, sir.”

“No. You’re _my_ Marines, and I’m not leaving you out there, Brad. They’ll send the fucking Seahawk or a fucking F14 before I leave you guys out there.”

“Is Tom Cruise going to fucking rescue us in the F14, LT? Because he can’t keep his fucking wingman alive, I don’t know if I want him coming out here and picking me up.”

“I promise if I see Tom Cruise, I’ll divert him. Talk about Scientology or something.”

“You’d do that for me, LT? Damn. I appreciate that.” There’s a slow drawl to Brad’s words and Nate has to close his eyes. There are too many variables in play, and he can’t think about any of them right now, much less all of them. He knows he really doesn’t have a choice. He glances over to Rudy to see what he and Ray are working on, sighing when the projected trajectories continue to spread further and further apart.

“Yeah. The trick to it is that you answer no to all the questions, except for every third one. Those are just the same questions worded the opposite way to try to trick you. That L. Ron Hubbard was a sneaky bastard.”

“Lieutenant Fick?”

Nate looks up from the sonar, almost surprised to see one of the CPOs glancing curiously at him. “Yes?”

“The Captain would like to see you on the flight deck, sir.”

“Right.” Nate tags the comm. “I’m being summoned.”

“Are they going to sacrifice you to the patron saint of lost causes?”

“Do saints like sacrifices?”

“Two Actual, get your ass moving.”

“Aye aye, Two-One. Two Actual out.” He takes off the headset and makes his way up a different set of stairs. There’s a Seahawk on the tarmac, rotors spinning. Nate’s stomach jumps hard and fast, tightening as Gunny brings over Nate’s fatigue jacket and Kevlar. “You coming?”

“I’ll hold the fort.” Gunny glances out at the pitch-black sky, even the stars seem dimmed. “Bring them back.”

“I have every intention.” Nate ducks his head and hurries aboard the Seahawk, strapping himself in as the rescue team finishes their prep. One of them bends his head close and tells Nate the protocol they’ll be following and, for all intents and purposes, tells him to sit down, shut up, hang on and keep the fuck out of the way. Nate finds he can live with that so long as when he’s heading back to the carrier, he’s got four more Marines with him.

**

Nate’s not allowed into the after-action briefing. He paces the corridor outside the command post and occasionally wants to punch the metal bulkheads, but he manages to refrain.

He wouldn’t care if it were just Godfather and the carrier’s Captain in the room, but Schwetje’s in charge of the report and there’s no way that he and Brad are going to see anything eye to eye. Brad’s contempt of him isn’t any secret, and Nate’s fairly certain that the threat of being left behind after surviving the clusterfuck of Iraq might make Brad actually dislike him even _more_ , regardless of whether or not it was Craig’s fault.

The ride back in the Seahawk had been quiet. There were too many sailors for any kind of honest talk and the knowledge of losing their vehicle sat heavily on all of them. Ray managed to lighten the mood by listing the ways he had planned on serving all of them up in his quest for survival by cannibalism, his ‘Poke roast’ at the top of the list, followed by the sad acknowledgement that he might have to eat Brad first, since Brad was Jewish and wouldn’t eat ‘Poke products’, and so if he waited to eat Brad later, he’d be too scrawny to eat.

By the time they’d reached the carrier, a few of the sailors had offered to drop Ray over the side before they landed, but Brad simply told them that Ray was a Recon Marine. No chance in hell it would stop him. They landed and Brad, Ray, Poke and Kocher were hurried off by a gaggle of lower-ranking officials, and Nate was left standing alone watching them go.

“You all right, sir?”

Nate rubs his eyes and inhales before turning to look at Gunny. “I’m beginning to think there is not a situation that our current command staff cannot and will not fuck up.”

“You’re _beginning_ to think that, sir?” Mike laughs and drapes an arm around Nate’s shoulders. “All our boys are home, Nate. Go get some sleep.”

“No. I want to talk to them when they’re through with the Captain and Godfather. I’m sure they’re going to want to let off a little steam.”

“That’s why the rest of the boys are planning a little welcome home party in their quarters. We’ve got them taken care of, Nate.”

Something tightens in Nate’s chest and he nods, knowing he’s being dismissed, uninvited from whatever it is the men have planned. He doesn’t wait for the briefing to end, just heads up to his own quarters, slumping back on his rack and closing his eyes, waiting for the jittery dregs of adrenaline to dissipate. His entire body feels like it’s on fire, stung by nettles or poison ivy, itching beneath his skin. All he can see behind his eyelids is the taut, drawn faces of four of his men, unhappy with the outcome of their mission, failure sketched roughly across their faces.

“Fuck.” Nate scrubs at his eyes, rubbing hard enough that tears well up and spike his lashes dark. He sits up, his boots loud on the metal deck. He’s halfway to the door, unable to just _sit_ when his men are possibly being taken to task for following orders, when there’s a hard, hollow knock at the hatch.

He opens the hatch, blinking as Brad ducks into his quarters and closes the hatchway behind him. The room, which had seemed too large for Nate suddenly seems significantly smaller with Brad crowding into it.

“Sir.”

“Brad.”

“Gunny said you’d come back up here, sir. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No. Not at all.” He watches Brad with wide eyes, watches him pace the room slowly, measuring it off in strides. They all do this on instinct; assess the terrain before they commit to it, learning the strengths and weaknesses of the operating theater before making their first move. “The debriefing…”

“I’m beginning to think, sir, that ‘Encino Man’ is giving Captain Schwetje far too much credit on the evolutionary scale.” Brad’s too tall for the room, his shoulders hunched slightly. He’s still in his wetsuit though both it and the diveskin are unzipped to his waist, no one thinking of giving him clearance to change back into his fatigues.

“You look uncomfortable, Sergeant.”

Brad’s smile has, over the course of their acquaintance, required Nate to come up with new and different descriptions to capture the nuances it contains. Right now, the only words that come to mind are feral and predatory and dangerous. It doesn’t do much toward calming the still jumping nerves of Nate’s body; instead it triggers them to a faster pace, adrenaline pumping again in some sort of fight or flight instinct. “Are you going to suggest I get out of these wet things, Lieutenant?”

Nate is infallibly honest with himself, since he’s found that’s the only way he can live with what he’s gotten himself into after realizing that whatever he thought the military and, more importantly, the Marines, are, the truth is something far different. Being honest with himself means that he has to admit that it’s more than crossed his mind that Brad standing half naked in front of him is almost more than he can stand, that he’d like to strip Brad out of his wetsuit and rub him dry, to use one of the rough towels to scrub away the dried salt and sand that clings to Brad’s skin. It’s just another fantasy to lock up with the others he’s been entertaining and then ignoring in equal measure since he first met Brad at Pendleton before they shipped out for Timor. “I’m just surprised you didn’t change, Sergeant.”

“Are you?” Brad’s smile is knowing, another one of those cutting grins that Nate’s gotten used to. Nate’s fairly certain that Brad knows far too much for Nate’s own good.

“Your quarters are closer to the debriefing room than mine.”

“Perhaps I just assumed that my direct commanding officer would want to conduct his own debriefing.” Brad leans against the bulkhead, his hands behind his back and his eyes moving over Nate’s body. “I was assured he has a great concern for the safety of his men.”

“He does.” Nate’s clothes feel too tight, too confining and there’s not enough air in the room as Brad reaches for the zipper of his wetsuit and tugs it down slowly. It’s military grade, so the teeth are sharp and gray, and they seem like they should make noise instead of parting like a well oiled machine exposing Brad’s chest, the paleness standing out against the black suit and the darkly tanned skin of Brad’s neck. “Your well-being is tantamount in his mind.”

“Then I should get out of these wet clothes before I catch cold.”

Nate’s heart feels like it’s lodged in his throat, his blood loud in his ears. This has always been there, hiding under the surface of their every interaction. Nate wants Brad in ways he doesn’t quite understands and Brad seems to enjoy exploiting those ways, pushing Nate to the point where he can’t think, can’t plan, can’t strategize. Most of the time it’s subtle, a hint of something that puts Nate on edge, on guard; but this is different, this is a full-out assault on Nate’s senses, a deliberate campaign.

Something slips then, the tight rein Nate has on his control faltering just enough to feel the blunt force of all the small attacks Brad has perpetrated against him – the closeness, the touches, the stares, the invasion of Nate’s personal space, the sly comments, the knowing smiles, the casual disregard for Nate’s presence when Brad is jerking off – all of it falls down on him like fucking shock and awe, and he doesn’t think at all, just shoves Brad back, slamming him against the bulkhead.

Brad’s chest is rising and falling rapidly, his gaze locked on Nate’s. Nate growls low and deep, closing the few inches of difference between them and pressing his mouth hungrily to Brad’s. Fear and frustration and other emotions he doesn’t want - _can’t_ \- name well up and feed into the kiss as Brad opens his mouth beneath Nate’s. Their tongues fight for dominance, Nate thrusting hard into Brad’s mouth, fucking his way between Brad’s parted lips. Brad answers with a groan and slumps, sliding down the bulkhead just enough to give Nate the height advantage.

“Fuck,” Nate groans, his hands pinning Brad’s shoulders against the metal as he licks at Brad’s lips, diving between them again to take over Brad’s mouth, to capture his tongue and suck on it until Brad’s making low, hot, pornographic noises that make Nate slide his hands down and dig his nails into Brad’s wetsuit. He claws at the neoprene, pushing it out of his way so he can feel Brad’s skin, strangely cool to his touch. “Christ. Fuck.”

“Let’s not make this a religious debate, sir.” Brad manages a breathless smirk that Nate bites away, sinking his teeth into Brad’s lower lip before sucking it into his mouth. His body feels swollen from his lips to his cock, blood pumping so hard he’s lightheaded and trembling. Brad worms his way out of the wetsuit and divesuit, leaving then in a heap on the deck, only his Speedo keeping a tight hold on his erection, the head of his cock sleekly outlined by the tight fabric.

“Shut _up_ ,” Nate demands, jerking at his belt and pushing his fatigues down out of the way. They’re at an awkward angle – Brad slightly hunched and Nate’s neck bent, but giving ground means giving in and Nate’s already gone so far he’s not sure he can give more. Brad laughs against Nate’s mouth, stealing the kiss from him and exploring every surface, licking and sucking at Nate’s mouth and tongue and lips as he sinks down to his knees, dragging Nate down with him.

Nate’s fingers work beneath Brad’s Speedo, guiding them carefully over Brad’s cock before shoving them down to mid-thigh. Brad’s busy ridding Nate of his, long fingers manipulating material until cool air races around Nate’s cock in the short instance before Brad’s hand is wrapped around him, around them both, his cock sliding against Brad’s. Nate groans, his back arching as Brad starts stroking them together. Nate feels every difference – length and girth, where his cock falls just short of Brad’s, the ridge of Brad’s stroking against the too-sensitive skin of the head of Nate’s.

“Touch me,” Brad breathes just before burying his face in the curve of Nate’s neck and Nate rushes to comply, his hand curving around Brad’s, falling into rhythm with his stroking. His other hand finds Brad’s shoulder again, fingers digging into flesh and muscle as Brad tightens his fist, gasping hard and hot against Nate’s neck. “Fuck. Fuck, Nate.”

Brad gasping his name undoes him and Nate shudders hard, coming hot and thick over their joined fingers. Brad follows him over the edge, and neither of them stop stroking, swaying into one another until sensation overloads them both and they stop, falling apart, slumping backwards. Brad’s splayed against the bulkhead, his eyes closed, his sandy lashes nearly invisible against his flushed face and Nate leans back against the edge of his bunk, the hard metal against his spine and his knees protesting his weight.

“I find I’m violently opposed to bad things happening to you.”

Brad snorts a laugh then groans as he shifts, stretching his legs out. “You and me both, LT.”

“Yeah, well.” Nate can feel the flush spreading over his body, selfishly glad he’s not completely exposed like Brad, even though it doesn’t seem to be bothering Brad in the slightest. “You have a keen sense of self-preservation.”

“Is _that_ why I’m in the Marines?”

Nate’s mouth quirks in a smile and he hides his laugh behind his hand. “Yeah, okay. Point.” He rubs his hands on his fatigues and then moves, tugging his pants up as he sinks down onto the deck. He’s still sticky and he reaches for a towel from his kit, cleaning himself up and then tossing it to Brad. “I’m not a very good commanding officer for Recon.”

“Your men got home safe, sir.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you out there in the first place.”

“Lieutenant…” Brad pauses and shakes his head, getting to his feet and grabbing a pair of sweats out of Nate’s bag. He tugs them on, not caring or noticing that the elastic ends somewhere mid-calf. He squats down over Nate’s legs, invading his space in a way that only Brad can manage. “Nate. No good commander wants his men in harm’s way. But a good commander also lets his men do their job, giving them the support and backup they need. I had no problem going out there, because I knew I had you back at base.” He sinks down, actually settling on Nate’s thighs. “I didn’t worry, sir. This is how it works in Recon when you do it right. You trust me to do my job, I trust you to bring me home.”

“Did you at least wrestle with a giant squid?”

Brad laughs and leans in, kissing Nate hard. It’s strange how easy it feels, how simple it is to touch him after restraining the urge for so long. Nate settles his hands on Brad’s slim hips, rubbing the jut of bone with his thumbs. “No. I guess Captain Nemo beat me to it.”

“Pity.”

“I’ll have to wrestle with someone else as a consolation prize, I guess.”

Nate grins and steals another kiss, savoring the slow burn of Brad’s mouth against his. “Have someone in mind, Sergeant?”

“I just might, sir.” Brad eases off of Nate, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the bunk.

“Do I get a hint?”

Brad laughs and pulls Nate into another searing kiss. “Well, sir, it’s not Kirk Douglas.”


End file.
